


Ghosts In Her Eyes

by CrimsonFirebreeze



Series: Hiddles Diddles [19]
Category: Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Abuse, Comfort, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Loss, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, References to Suicide, Self-Mutilation, Support
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 04:06:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/657864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimsonFirebreeze/pseuds/CrimsonFirebreeze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom muses about his girlfriend in the wake of her suicide attempt, while trying to comfort her on a particularly rough day. Companion piece to "How To Save A Life"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts In Her Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> So this has literally been in the works for a little over four months now and was meant to follow up [How To Save A Life](http://archiveofourown.org/works/610624). I lost traction with it after a few weeks and only thought of it tonight because I had a really really difficult thing come up that I had to deal with and I remembered this and had to finish it. 
> 
> The whole thing was inspired by Mumford & Sons’ “Ghosts That We Knew” and should be enjoyed with it. The very last sentence of this story is in fact a line from the song.
> 
> Trigger warnings for mentioning abuse, rape, self mutilation and suicide.

Have you ever looked into the eyes of an abuse victim? I mean really looked. Just stared deeply into the depths of the soul reflected there? I’ll wager not. I’ve noticed their instinct is to avoid eye contact at all costs, except in moments of pure enraged defiance. In that moment, it’s almost too intense seeing all the pain built up and tucked away, left festering for years. It was enough to bring me, almost literally, to my knees the first time it happened to me. When those pretty blue-green eyes locked with mine the very first time, she had me. I had to know more about what I saw there. I wanted to hear her story, right down to the ugliest details. I knew it was hard for her to show me physical scars and even harder to reveal the emotional ones, but she did it bravely and I admired her for it. I’ll take a chance and say I adored her even. I wanted to protect her, show her the beauty in life that was stolen from her. It was an insane idea from the beginning, I knew that, but I couldn’t stop myself. Every time she looked at me, I wanted to be what she needed more and more.

Talking over the phone, Twitter and e-mails were our only means of communication for a long time and I fell for her. Getting to know someone without the bother of physical desire, especially someone like her, is rather fulfilling. I felt I loved her more honestly than I could have if she had been by my side the entire time. Of course I desired her though, and when I did see her, it was hard to keep my hands to myself. Sometimes I didn’t, but I never pressured her. I knew I’d have to take it very slow with her. She tried to to do what she thought would make me happy, but I was willing to wait until she was truly ready to give herself to me. And when she did, it was perfect. She knew I loved her beyond her body by then and that I was committed to her and her young daughter. I felt it was necessary that she did and the wait was well worth it. Gazing into her eyes as I made love to her the first time, I was privileged to watch the change in her as she let me in completely, both physically and emotionally. It was beautiful, exhilarating, intoxicating.

I will admit I was not entirely prepared to handle everything that came with being in a relationship with someone like her. The psychological damage done to her over a life time and the resulting personality disorders were a bit of a challenge at first. I bought up every book I could and read some that she already owned to get a solid grasp on everything. Things like crippling social anxiety, severe depression, irrational anger, self-mutilation, suicidal tendencies, night terrors, insomnia, and a few other nasty little quirks that made day to day life a struggle and left me afraid to leave her alone. I wondered how one person could have so many things plague them; how all that could be torturing one single mind. And then I learned the phrase “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder”. It began to make sense, the more I educated myself on it and the more she opened up to me. She was active with a therapist when I met her and often turned down coming to Europe to be with me in order to keep her weekly appointments. It was frustrating in the beginning, but in hindsight, I am extremely proud of her for keeping her priorities set. She was and still is dedicated to living peacefully with her PTSD, which I’ve come to understand that up until she met me, was added to and compacted time and time again. I was absolutely astonished when I’d heard I was the first man to treat her with the dignity and respect she deserved. It’s a lot to live with. And we’ve had our share of bumps in the road. Certainly more blood and tears than I would have liked, but I love her for her fragility and I love her for her strength.

I’ve been dwelling on these things for some time now, having just wrapped on a film project that kept me busy for several months. After a rather nasty brush with suicide, I’ve been reluctant to leave her alone. She’s been able to follow me around the world for the most part, but sometimes, it just isn’t plausible for her to come along and that’s when I get scared. Even home in my own London flat, my schedule is still hellish, to say the least, and I don’t spend as much time with her as I would like. She never complains, ever. She supports my career fully and never wants to do anything to hinder me. I worry that she suffers for it and that it’s actually making things worse for her. But she promises me my career doesn’t bother her, jokes that she lives out her abandoned dream of acting vicariously through me. Her anxiety makes it impossible for her to pursue that avenue, though I would gladly help her in any way that I could. She’s a marvelous actress, though a bit rough around the edges. I think it would be good for her, but sadly, it causes her too much stress. Writing is her chosen art and I do not argue. In fact, I look forward to finding something new in my e-mail inbox when I’m traveling. I enjoy reading her works of fiction and it gives me some relief when she does keep herself busy with it.

I watch her now as she sits at the supper table, a marble composition notebook open in front of her. She’s drumming the pen in her hand on it in a steady rhythm that I find both comforting and annoying all at once. I know she’s upset about something because she’s ignoring me and staring blankly out the window. I know her to spend hours doing this on a good day while writing. Normally, it means she’s completely absorbed in her story, attempting to put words to the scene playing out in her mind. But right now, there’s something more. I can feel it radiating off of her. I’ve called her name three times and still have failed to get her attention. So I wait.

Kadence isn’t here. My younger sister has taken the toddler out so that I can handle this. I called her when I noticed something was wrong. Sam never admits when she’s upset. She holds it in and soldiers on with her maternal duties while simultaneously sticking her nose in a book she’s read a hundred times or as she did today, attempt to work on her writing. I suppose I’ve seen this coming and I want to get to the root of it before she gives herself any more scars. She’s very good about not hurting herself and never does it when I’m with her, but I worry that she’s alone too much with me leaving early in the mornings and not returning until late in the evening. I’ve been home from being abroad for a week now and we haven’t been intimate at all and I have to admit that it’s partially my fault because I’ve been exhausted. But it disturbs me that she hasn’t tried.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not about sex. Though I do very much enjoy that part of our relationship, I am always happy to just have her by my side. My concern is over her behavior towards me in its entirety. Everything has seemed rather half-hearted coming from her and I suppose I should expect such during her bouts of depression, but it never stops me from worrying. Tabloids can be cruel and erroneous and I have no way of knowing if she’s heard or read something that’s shaken her trust in me. She, of course, has no reason to think I would betray her and she’s very good about not believing what she stumbles upon. I understand that she would have trouble trusting me, though she says she has rarely ever truly doubted my fidelity. Men have used her and abused her and she has known little more than lies. I appreciate that she does not project her past partners on me though and it makes my life a little bit easier. I know she gets jealous, and it’s adorable watching her try not to be, especially where my job is concerned. Outside of that, I realize I’m too friendly sometimes, though I mean no harm by it and she’s learned to accept it as I’ve learned to be more aware of it. I always ask her to come with me to events, even when I know anxiety will make her beg out of it just to give her that piece of mind. She has never accused me of anything and I pray she never feels the need to. Still I worry about bad press for her sake, though I have never been one to attract it.

I call her name softly again and there is still no acknowledgment of it from her and again I am concerned that I have done something wrong. I stand and go to her, amused to see her shoulders tense. I bend down and kiss her cheek and catch the softest sigh passing through her lips.

“Have I upset you,” I ask carefully.

“No, Tom, you haven’t,” she replies with exasperation. She’s annoyed that I would think that, I suppose.

“Then what troubles you?”

She shakes her head, eyes remaining fixed on something outside the window, her chin resting on her hand. I know she doesn’t feel like talking about it, but she needs to. An angry looking pink scar on her left arm serves as a constant reminder of that fact. I try to tuck the longer strands of her bangs behind her ear but, as always, they refuse to stay put. I’m really too tall to be bending over her to wait this out, so I kneel beside her, which is less authoritative and domineering anyways. I catch her glancing at me from behind her bangs and I cant help but smile a little. It’s probably the silliest thing in the world that this girl can make me ache for her attention, as if I were a child and not in my thirties, but I do.

“I don’t know,” she finally answers and though I know it’s likely true, I also know there’s a reason.

“Try,” I say as gently as I can and she gives me a half-glare before looking out the window again. I understand her desire to ignore this depression until it goes away but I can’t leave it alone. Not in good conscience anyways and Alex would have my head if I gave into Sam right now. She would have every right to. The poor girl has been rather protective of Sam ever since she literally saved her life. I have to wonder if maybe being away from her dearest friend is causing some of this. The girls talk daily on the internet but somehow I think that isn’t enough. “Does it have to do with not seeing Alex lately?”

“No,” she answers immediately. “I miss Alex, sure. But talking to her is enough. I just… I don’t know.”

“Talk to me, Kitten,” I beg. “Please?”

Her eyes meet mine and I am not prepared for what I see there. Instantly, I understand why she cannot put into words what plagues her mind. Her ghosts are haunting her today, powerful enough for me watch them whisper through the deep pools of blue. Which ghosts they are, I cannot say, only she knows the answer to that, though I have a good idea.

“Is it your mum,” I ask, watching her eyes. Her reaction is instant, tears welling up and for at least the millionth time, I marvel at the beauty of them as their color shifts slightly from tinted green to dark grey, reflecting the gathering storm within her. She says nothing but slides from her chair, reaching for me and I know I’ve hit the nail on the head. She’s clinging tightly to me as the first sob tears at her and my heart nearly breaks at the sound.

Sam wouldn’t talk about her mother to me for a while after she originally told me what happened between them on our first date. She would mention happier memories of her childhood with her mother but never anything beyond that. I knew better than to pry from the beginning. It was a subtle inflection in her voice when she spoke that tipped me off to just how much effort it was to hold in the pain and I knew it would take very little to cause the dam to burst. As passionate and emotional as this girl is, she keeps a tight lid on things, controlling her emotions with careful precision that I find myself envying. It’s why I believe in her potential as an actress. But this one subject, without fail, always shatters her. The pain never lessens, never comes on gently, never gives her reprieve. Today is no different, I know that just from the way she’s shaking in my arms. It’s hitting her violently, dragging her down and her silence was her last desperate attempt at avoiding it. Needless to say I feel like a tit, but again, I know this has to be done. She needs to cry this out and she needs me to hold her through it.

“I miss her,” I hear her say from somewhere under my chin. “I miss my brother too, Tom. I can’t… can’t do this. I can’t keep going like this.”

As much as I want to reassure her that she, in fact, can because she’s so much stronger than she sees, the only sound that comes is a sigh. I squeeze her as her words dissolve into powerful, shuddering sobs. I can barely make out anything she’s saying between her cries and her face being buried into my chest. I don’t really need to, though, as I’ve heard it before. It never changes; only gets worse. This is one thing that time will never heal. I wish with all my heart that I could carve this pain from her soul, repair the damage done and make things right. But all I can do is hold her until this passes and the helpless feeling it gives me is near maddening.

“It’s not fair,” she whimpers. “I know it’s for Jake’s own good, but it’s not fair. I need my mommy.”

I shut my eyes against my own tears. There is something so profound about hearing a young woman in her early twenties crying for not her mother, but her mommy. It gets me every time.

“I know, Kitten. I know,” I say, rubbing her back and rocking her gently. “It is unfair and I’m sorry things are this way. You know I would change it if I could, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” she says through a sniffle and I know she’s starting to calm down.

“What set this off, darling,” I ask, risking getting her worked up again, but I need to get to the very root of this before it festers again.

“Today.”

“Well of course today, what day did you think I meant?”

“No,” she says firmly, shaking her head and drawing back to look up at me. The pain in her eyes is palpable; waiting to be scooped out and tossed away. If only I could. “I mean today’s date.”

“November the twenty-seventh,” I say carefully, trying to remember what event in her life is tied to this day. She’s looking at me expectantly and I cannot help but feel guilty for drawing a blank and the disappointment in her eyes at my failure only makes me feel worse.

“It’s Jake’s birthday.”

And now I really feel like a complete ass. There is a small handful of dates in her life that I am required to remember, simply because they trigger these depressions. Some worse than others and this is, by far, the most important one.

Jake is her brother, younger than her by almost twelve years. He was eight years old the last time she saw him and her last conversation with him involved him crying his heart out because she couldn’t spend Easter Sunday with him. That was back in 2010, if I remember correctly and it’s haunted her every day since. From what I know, they were very close despite living three hours apart during the last two years that they were in contact. Sam has told me on a number of occasions that when she was a teenager and the abuse got too unbearable, it was always Jake and the thought of the pain he’d endure that kept her from committing suicide. She has Kadence now, and myself as well, but knowing that little detail, I can only guess at how shattered she truly is on the inside.

I can do nothing more than pull her back into my arms and hold her tight as a new round of weeping starts. I kiss her forehead, her cheeks, trying to catch every tear that falls and eventually she’s giggling at my failed efforts because there is simply too many. She looks up at me, still weepy but grateful, the faintest smile present on her lips. She parts them invitingly and I waste no time pressing mine against hers in the most tender of touches I can muster. It’s a wet kiss, tinged with the salty taste of her tears, but I don’t mind and neither does she. Instead, she relaxes in my embrace and I keep kissing her until she’s content enough to settle against my chest. I nuzzle into her honey-coloured hair and breathe in the scent of her strawberry flavored shampoo as she sighs against me. I’ll admit that even though this is hardly the time, I’m severely tempted by her. The lack of intimacy and her soft and supple body against my own is enough to cause a stirring in me, but I have to push that aside for now. If I can get her through this, I will reap the rewards later when she’s in the proper state of mind to give herself to me, and she’ll be the one to initiate it.

“Should we get the book,” I ask, pulling my thoughts away from bedroom activities and placing it solidly on the matter at hand.

“I suppose,” she answers and pulls away from me and I find I am loathe to be without her warmth. I stand and make my way to the sofa while she retrieves the aforementioned book from her satchel. She joins me, settling under my arm and against my side so I can hold her as she reads. She’s read the book before, the pages highlighted and littered with her handwriting. After her suicide attempt though, her therapist suggested she go over it again. I’ve read it too. I was only supposed to read one section but when she left it here on accident, I took the liberty of familiarizing myself with it so that she can turn to me. I can never truly comprehend the things she’s been through but I can try to be here for her when things get bad in her mind. Some days, it is up to me to chase away the ghosts that haunt her.

I take a moment to glance at the section she has opened to as she starts reading out loud. I pull the key points from my memory and close my eyes, savoring the sound of her voice gaining strength as she reads on. Again, I nuzzle into her hair and silently will the pain to leave her in peace. I understand that she will bear these wounds for the rest of her life and that there is little I can do about it. But I would give anything to make it easier for her. I hate seeing her suffer and not being able to do something for her. She tells me that my love and support are enough but since her suicide attempt, I cannot help but doubt the sincerity in her words. But who am I so say whether or not it is true?

Eventually, her head comes back against my shoulder and I look down at her to see those haunted eyes watching me. She finished the chapter while I was lost in my thoughts. I kiss her forehead while I wait for her to say something but nothing comes. She just watches me and I am sucked into the beauty of her eyes. I can see worlds, in those depths that I never knew could exist, primarily because outside her mind, they don’t. It never ceases to amaze me when she opens this door to me and I feel humbled to be allowed a glimpse of the only place she feels truly safe. It is Oz and Asgard and Never Neverland, and Wonderland all in one place. It is her refuge, her escape and it takes my breathe away when she commits to paper and shares it with me.

“I love you,” she says softly, pulling me back to reality so quickly that I can’t help but blink a few times before her words register with me. When they finally do, a smile tugs at my mouth. It is like the sweetest drug when she says it to me, because I know the weight it carries. She’ll never utter those words when she’s angry, and the act led to numerous hurt feelings on my end early on until I understood why she wouldn’t. She adamantly refuses to toss the words around. Love to her, and myself, is much bigger than to be taken lightly. It is not a synonym for sex and it is not something to be thought of lightly. It is a powerful and dangerous emotion that is not to be trifled with. She won’t tell me she loves me unless she truly feels that way and when she is angry, she isn’t willing to taint the words with a negative feeling. I appreciate it, even if it does take upwards of days to get her to say it. But right now, she is reaching for me, and I am eager to answer.

“I love you too, Kitten,” I reply and it is her turn to smile. “More than words can ever say.”

She shifts against me so that she can wrap her arms around me and it feels wonderful when she gives me a squeeze, It is certainly the most vigorous affection I have gotten since I got home and I am elated for it. Progress has been made. It isn’t much, but these things take time and there is nothing wrong with baby steps. When her kiss comes my spirit soars even higher and I hold her that much tighter to me. We’re going to be okay. And the ghosts that we knew will flicker from view and we’ll live a long life…


End file.
